XCOM: The Mini Anthology
by LukkiLewin
Summary: A series of short stories I've decided to write. Most of them will occur in XCOM 2, and utilize the lore established in Enemy Unknown, Within, and XCOM 2. Each chapter is a single story, and I will update these as frequently as I can.
1. ADVENT is People

ADVENT is People

My mind is like my weapon. Organized, compartmentalized. Sectioned into individual chunks that can be taken apart and put together, each part doing what it's supposed to do.

Or at least, that's what I'm told.

Things leak sometimes. Warm things, unusual things, sliding between the orderly pillars I've come to know as instruction and order. They're slippery, though. They evade my grasp, weaving through the pillars until I've lost sight of them.

Catching one of these things requires immense concentration. Sometimes, in the middle of patrol, I find myself standing still, ignoring instruction and chasing the thing in my head.

When I do catch it, it's an unusual experience. I see through the eyes of another.

One morning, I was whisked into a cozy bedroom, calm sunlight peering through curtains painted pink with white dots. I was staring down into a bed, and nestled in the blankets, covered in unfamiliar creatures, was a baby. Her big, blue eyes looked up at me, and her puffy lips turned into a smile.

Then, she barked in a harsh tone, and I found my commanding officer yelling at me to keep pace.

During the winter months, I see myself sliding down a hill on some unidentified object, skating down the icy hills. Snow covers me as I hear laughter escape buble from my mouth.

During summers, I stand at the head of a table, serving drinks and cooked meat on a lawn of bright green grass. There are burgers, just like what we have today, but there are also cylinders of meat and large shanks that look like they were torn from some great terrestrial beast. People laugh, wearing unknown, colorful clothes and drinking. The moon is high, and in the sky, I see bright lights. Explosions, like enormous versions of the fire from our magnetic rifles, going off, producing intense lights of various colors that fade away into the ether.

I assume these visions are from the Old World. Few speak of it today, but I see parallels of it with the material I've found in the hideouts of malcontents. Pictures, objects, and tools.

It is unusual, and worrying. The Old World is poisonous, is it not? The epitome of all we hate and fear, the cancer of another age cleansed by the scalpel of ADVENT.

But, if the Old World is so subversive, why does it feel good? Why do I find myself standing outside, trying to recall the visions, basking in the warm pleasure they bring to me? Sometimes, I find new sensations. Sometimes I sit at the head of a table, a flaming pastry of some sort placed in front of me and faces, wrinkled and smooth, staring at me, smiling. Sometimes, I lie in a bed with another. The lights are dim. I am blind as my hands scour the landscape of the other's body.

"Trooper 11305," snaps a voice.

I break from my thoughts, and return to reality. I am in an office, the walls covered in white metal and ADVENT paraphernalia. Posters of men and women, smiling and holding hands, plaster the walls, with the words "ADVENT CARES FOR YOU" printed on them. The room's occupant is slim, wearing a black suit with a pair of black shades obscuring his eyes. He regards me with a look that makes me squirm within my armor.

"Trooper 11305, otherwise known as Glen Miller," he continues, turning his face towards a manila envelope on the desk. "Officer 21837 has reported you for dereliction of duty and possible mental trauma. What do you say in response?"

I flip through the tongues I know before finding the appropriate language.

"Supervisor," I begin. "I apologize for my perceived negligence. I am still… shaken, after the early events.

"Yes, yes," the Supervisor says, in a dismissive tone. "However, it has been three weeks since the first terrorist attack, Trooper 11305. If you are still experiencing trauma of any kind, then I'm inclined to recommend you to the nearest Gene clinic for scrubbing."

I freeze. That word, scrubbing. He tosses it out as if it's a routine thing, but for us, it's a deadly word. Troopers, those who don't fit in, or are "promoted", undergo it. It's deemed a necessary "correctional" and "specialization" tool, and it's where the Stun Lancers, Shieldbearers, and Officers come from. Prestigious positions, but I would rather be dead than trade places with them.

"Trooper 11305," the Supervisor says, his tone tinted with anger. "Do I have to recommend you for scrubbing?"

I shake my head. "Assure Officer 21837 that my mental state has not been compromised. I am willing and ready to serve the ADVENT corp." I struggle to keep my voice from wavering.

The Supervisor nods, but I suspect he's feeling disappointed. His face is no longer neutral, and his lips are slightly downturned.

"Very well. Report back to your patrol, Trooper 11305. But if I receive another report, you **will** be scrubbed. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Supervisor," I say, grateful. I shuffle out of the office and collect my gear at the checkpoint in the lobby.

As soon as I am outside, the warm feeling passes underneath my temples. I groan, and resist it. I will not be scrubbed, I tell myself. I focus on instruction and order, cling to the pillars in my head until the feeling, warm like the air from a plasma heat sink, slinks away.

I clutch my forehead, or at least the armored helmet covering it. It's enough, and I regain my confidence.

"Trooper 11305," says my Officer in Basic. She stands a head above me, pricking me with her cold, emotionless voice.

"What was the Supervisor's report?" I know she's only doing this out of formality. If I had failed the report, I wouldn't be standing here.

She's demanding and controls through fear, I've learned. She's never said it, but she knows that Troopers are easily replaced. The constant reminder of that fact keeps us in line.

"I am still in peak condition," I reply, spitting out the Basic as clearly as I can. ADVENT language, although hard coded in me, is hard to get a grip on when you're nervous. Tone and inflection is everything, and Officers do not take kindly to misinformation. "Ready to return to duty ASAP."

My Officer nods, but she doesn't smile. In my head, I feel a surge of warmth, and a word comes to mind. The word is _bitch_ , and it suits the situation, somehow.

She turns back, and heads to the rest of the patrol. Her hips, swaying, call my attention, and as my eyes make contact, the heat in my head explodes.

Now, I'm in a dank, musty building, sitting in a small chair. There are lights, and music, a pounding like the ADVENT sanctioned clubs, and a stage, where I see –

"TROOPER 11305!" my Officer yells, her Basic cutting across the courtyard. The other Troopers stare at us, waiting to see the resolution.

I shudder, and walk over to her in quick fashion.

"Just remembering proper public protocols," I say aloud, while my mind screams, angry at the vision it has just been deprived of.

As I rejoin the patrol, I think on the nature of these visions. They're hardwired into my mind, and the sensation is strong, strong enough that I know these aren't simulations. And if they aren't fake, does that make them memories?

My own mind tells me that I was once Glen Miller, a mechanic and loyal follower of ADVENT. Loving father of four, and a damn good cook. The Elders tell me I am doing my duty, and that the memories in me are as real as the flesh on my skin. But I know through these visions, that those are not my children. I know that I, that Glen Miller has never been to these parties, these occasions.

I am looking through the lens of another.

 _Liberating_ , I think. That's another word that comes to my head. Funny. This has never taught me new words before. I think up an image to follow the word, and I feel gold sunlight, the brisk touch of the wind flowing underneath my arms, and –

No. I can't let this go on. It's like a disease, developing and _growing_. I don't want to be scrubbed, and if that means not knowing more, then I'm fine. I don't want to know more, and I don't _need_ to know more. I'm a soldier, it's all I've ever been, all I ever will be, and that's _fine_.

The feelings retreat, hiding to deep, unknown corners of my mind. They don't come back, and I let out a sigh. I bask in the comfort of instruction and order once more, relieved to be lost of those unknowable, forbidden visions.

It would be a few weeks before I felt them again.

* * *

"Balata Muertan!" screeches Trooper 24601 before toppling backward, his blood flowing through the cracks in his black armor.

The rest of the patrol springs into action. Gears click in my mind, endless combat simulations that prepared me for this.

My feet do not fail me. I make a dash to a lamppost, its large, boxy shape shielding my form from further fire. Few of my comrades are so lucky.

The insurgents are crack shots. They spring from their cover, loosing bullets that hit the fleeing remnants of my patrol with deadly results. Already, four of our number are lying on the street, limbs stiffening and mouths agape.

A ringing sounds off in my helmet, and as I check the combat overlay in my helmet, I already know my Officer plans to fight to the end.

She's marked a target, a female hunkering behind a trash can. The crimson reticle rotates rapidly around her as I take aim. Shots blast through her makeshift cover. The insurgent falls, but the wave of her hand tells me she is still alive.

"Enacting combat protocol," yells one of the other insurgents. He jabs his finger at my Officer, as if he's marking her. She stops firing, just for a moment, as if gripped by this absurd imitation of her.

Taking advantage of her surprise, the drone flies in. It's lightning fast, too fast for me to hit with my bullets. It dives, and discharges a bolt of electricity that runs through my Officer's body. She jerks, then falls to the ground, twitching. The red marker on my overlay winks out, and I'm tempted to breathe a sigh of relief.

She's dead.

"Got one more Jabber for you, Devil Dog!" jeers an insurgent. He points at me, and I stiffen as I realize that I am the last one left.

I raise my weapon to fire at him, but a woman leaps from a nearby building, crashing through the glass. In one, clean movement, she takes out an object from her back, something similar to what the Stun Lancers use. I instinctively dodge, and her slash grazes the armor covering on my thigh. The black material hangs loosely as I recover.

"Quick, aren't ya?" she mutters, her voice different from the others. It's got a slight accent to it, something… familiar.

The warm feeling is back, pounding in my brain. I gasp, trying to push it back. Not now, definitely not now.

The insurgent leaps up, and pins me down with her weapon. She's trying to bring it against my face, and I lift up my rifle to block the attack. The alloy meets the steel, with a hungry grinding sound accompanying it.

"You took him from me," she spits in my face, taking the time to enunciate each word with extra pressure to her blade. "You took my Johnny, and I'm going to murder each and every one of you bastards for it!"

With that last shriek, she presses forward, and in that instance, the warmth ignites. More memories flash in front of me, but they aren't pleasant. I see hurt. I feel pain. I feel a raging inside, a culmination of my darkest thoughts mixed with the thoughts of who knows how many.

This woman wants to kill me. The protests of dozens, no hundreds, ring in outrage. I'm not going to die, they shout. I don't deserve to die, another screams. I'm too young to die, What gives you the right, and several others cross my vision. But the feeling is the same. The pulsating urge that pushes me.

I mentally shut off my combat overlay, but my vision is still red. I scream, lifting one hand from my weapon. I see a memory, and I see two arms, my arms, reaching out and choking the life out of someone. In reality, I trace their movement with my hand, finding the spot where I grasp. Then I squeeze.

I feel the plates on my gauntlet shudder under the pressure, and I feel the uneasily satisfactory feeling of her flesh caving in. The woman's vicious expression drops, her mouth turning into a chaotic O, fluctuating as it gasps for air. Just like the memory.

Then, she drops. My hand feels like it's squeezing a bag, empty and insubstantial. And in that moment, a new word comes to me.

 _Anger_. I like it, flowing in me. A red righteousness, hot and prickly, running through my veins.

It is not over, though. It's hungry, and it wants more. I oblige, picking up the fallen insurgent's weapon.

The other insurgents recoil, surprised to see me still alive. A memory plays, and I see myself facing an ADVENT platoon. Fire is raging all around, and instead of armor, I wear a bloody, ragged shirt. Sweat beads my forehead, hot and heavy, and I hear my own panting. I feel cornered, desperate.

Then, I run. Against all odds, I dodge enemy fire, push forward, and kill. In close quarters, the insurgents don't stand a chance.

I cleave through the necks of two of them, watching droplets of red blood splatter against the concrete. My desperation takes physical form, tearing their flesh apart and disemboweling them.

But the entrance of this feeling destroys my pillars. Instruction and order collapse, their cold, comforting steel shattering into thousands of pieces In that moment, I am left open. And that is what kills me.

Amid the storm of pain that rages within me, forcing my hand to paint the pavements with red, a greater pain drowns them all out. It is my own pain, an electric discharge running from my chest and breaking my body open, piece by piece. I'm torn from my vision, full of fire and blood, and dragged into reality to be thrown down, a gaping wound in my chest. The insurgent I was about to strike slides away from me, gulping down enormous breaths. His chest rises and falls with greater intensity as I notice the diminishing in my own.

The heat fades away, leaving me cold. New memories come. One moment, I am nestled in a sterile room, blue sheets across my body and wires running from my arms. I hear the beating of my heart coupled with the dispassionate hum of a machine. A cold, stiff sensation crosses my chest, before spreading and rendering me taut and devoid of life. I come to, back on the pavement, but still bearing the coldness from the memory.

Systems in my armor shut down, snuffed from existence. The overlay, my sensors, they all disappear, leaving my eyes locked in the tight confines of my helmet. The artificial blackness soon disappears as my eyes lose the strength to stay open.

"Menace 1-5 here," barks a person from beyond. His voice crawls through my ears, a watered down concoction that is filtered through my ear drums into a near indistinguishable mess. "We've lost Rachel and Weiss. Morozov's gonna need medevac."

"Can you believe this?" comes another voice, even fainter. "What drugs is ADVENT pumping their guys with?"

I lose consciousness, the remnants of the conversation disappearing.

My mind, once my weapon, falls apart, pieces clattering against my head before sliding into the growing coldness inside me. I feel the warmth slide with it, a liquid gift pouring down a hole to nowhere.

I die.

* * *

 _The inspiration for this story came from my romantic point of view on the creation of ADVENT Troopers. For those who haven't finished XCOM 2, spoilers below._

 _I imagine, being the products of human DNA that was harvested from once-living people, ADVENT Troopers could be experiencing the memories and emotions of other humans. They are literally patchwork creations, slapped together with the best DNA from hundreds of people. But they still are people, and still capable of thinking and feeling like people. I used the basic Trooper as the subject for this confusing identity crisis/emotional roller coaster, since they are the watered down, basic version, and therefore the most "connected" to their humanity. They're like babies (or CHAPPIE), heavily armed newborns in a world with various elements they are completely unfamiliar with._

 _And for those wondering, I imagine Stun Lancers experience the memories from drug addicts, adrenaline junkies, and hardcore BDSM practitioners, Shieldbearers experience memories from body builders and doctors, and Officers experience memories from abusive parents._


	2. Raising Sectoids (In Two Weeks or Less)

Raising Sectoids (In Two Weeks or Less)

"ST-696," Dr. Jessie White said, her voice two parts excitement and one part pants-wetting fear. She approached the subject, who had recently emerged from its incubation tube. Globs of green stasis gel coated the floor while the subject lay on the ground, panting.

"ST-696?" Jessie said again.

The subject raised its head, and Jessie saw its large, beady eyes scan her. These eyes, like oil wells planted in its pink skin, lacked pupils, but Jessie knew they could see much, much more than the average human eye.

"Is the subject stable?" said Rupert, the Division Head researcher, his nervous voice buzzing into her communicator. This was the most promising breakthrough, and Jessie knew that at this stage, Rupert wouldn't be able to face the Elders with a failure.

"It appears so," Jessie responded.

"Well," Rupert said. "Don't just stand there. Help the bloody thing up!'  
Jessie reluctantly obeyed. She felt her shoes sink into the green murk surrounding the subject, and did her best to keep it from splattering on her pants.

If only the damn thing could walk on its own, she thought. Either that or it could pay for the dry cleaning.

She suppressed her disgust, however, and came to the subject's side.

"ST-696" Jessie said, talking into what she assumed was an ear. The subject perked up again, staring at her. "I'm here to help," she continued. "Follow me." She stretched out her hand and bent down, hoping the subject understood her intentions.

Thank the Elders, it did. It reached out its own hand, spindly, clawlike, and pink, and grasped Jessie's palm. With less effort than expected, Jessie hauled the subject to its feet, and then supported it with her other hand. They were out of the lab in less than a minute.

"It is done?" inquired the Elder representative, an alien in a sleek suit. Despite the alien Collective's best attempts at this creature, it was easy to tell he wasn't human. The representative stood a good foot taller than everyone else, and had scaly patches of skin covering his neck and wrists.

But for Rupert Ackerman, the most unnerving part was his eyes. They bulged out of the representative's eye sockets, and were colored an odd shade of green and purple. Dealing with the Elder representative was unpleasant in many ways, but if Rupert believed in hell, he would bet his life that this son of a bitch would be staring at him there.

"The process was successful," Rupert said. "Subject ST-696 is stable, and appears to be in control of their mental faculties. However, we have been unable to conduct any tests for psionic ability – "  
"Mr. Ackerman," the representative interrupted in his dead, emotionless tone. "The Elders expect a fully functioning specimen. If the specimen lacks psionic acuity, then it is another failure. And the Oversee will not tolerate another failure."

"Of course," Rupert said, lowering his head. "We will conduct the test immediately."

The representative nodded, satisfied to have asserted his authority. "We are confident you will succeed, Mr. Ackerman," he continued. "Your record shows it. Otherwise we would not have placed you at the helm of such an auspicious project."

"Yes," Rupert said. He didn't risk saying more than he had to.

"That is why we are assured that you will not be hindered much by this new… development."

Rupert looked up. Sweat collected on his forehead, and he clenched his teeth.

"The Elders are interested in a new set of traits," the representative said. "We wish for the specimen to also be capable of maintaining proper communication with the civilian populace."

"You mean conversation?" Rupert blurted. He felt his cheeks heat up, and the sweat began to drip from his scalp at a greater pace. He hadn't considered that aspect in the whole procedure. For fuck's sake, he was told to build a weapon, not a PR representative.

The representative nodded, seemingly unaware of Rupert's anxiety. "The Elders have decided we must take a new approach. While members of my kind can… dissuade any civilian resistance, we must show the world our true benevolence. That means that even the lowest soldier must be capable of espousing our achievements.

"We expect results by next week," he finished, walking away from Rupert. After the black steel doors closed on his back, ADVENT's head genetic researcher began to shake. Tremors racked his body as he saw his recent success become another potential failure.

He needed to teach that damn thing to talk, and soon.

* * *

Day 1

Jessie walked into the conference room, feeling like an enormous stereotype with her glasses, white lab coat, and clipboard. Tariq had told her it was only to make the subject imprint on her as an authority figure, but she wasn't eager to have _anything_ imprint on her.

Subject ST-696 sat on the far side of the table, doing its best to imitate a person sitting in a seat. Its arms were extended across the table, like two limp pool noodles, while its back conformed rigidly to the shape of the seat. Its smile, forced by the odd shape of its skull, glared at Jessie in the dim light, and as she sat she felt like she was on a blind date with a drunk and socially inept colleague.

"So, ST-696," Jessie began, putting her attention to her script. "How are you feeling after the latest procedure?"

ST-696 cocked its head at her.

"I said, how are you feeling?"

ST-696 said nothing. Instead, it made a low, guttural clicking sound.

Jessie rubbed her temples. "I'm going to need a drink," she muttered.

ST-696 looked at her, and nodded.

* * *

Day 4

"Tariq, what the hell is that thing?" Jessie asked, as the Iranian engineer walked up to her.

"I've figured it out, Jess!" Tariq replied. He held up an object, which Jessie saw was a black, metal earpiece, molded in a shape resembling a hermit crab shell. Minute green lights flashed every second or so.

"And that is?"

"Well, I contacted a few of the other ADVENT science departments, specifically the theoretical psionics department, and we figured out the problem. See, despite the language psychotherapy we put it in, ST-696 is actually incapable of speech."

"How is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Wait, it gets better. ST-696 can understand our language, but it is _physically_ incapable of reproducing it."

"Which means – "

"It must communicate psionically – like the Elders!" Tariq took some time to place the earpiece in Jessie's ear. "With this handy little doodad we cooked up, you'll be able to hear it. Just don't put it in an oven or something – sensitive elerium micro battery."

Jessie nodded, and felt the earpiece seal off one of her eardrums. Then, with an approving nod from Tariq, she stepped into the chamber.

"Hello," came a voice, as soon as she closed the door. Jessie recoiled instinctively, before realizing the voice was coming from her earpiece.

"ST-696, is that you?"

"Yes." The subject regarded Jessie from its chair. The voice was like a choir, multiple voices speaking in monotone at different pitches, all at once. Pretty surreal.

She flipped through the notes of her script, and came back to the question from yesterday.

"So, ST-696, how do you feel since your operation?"

"Warm."

"That's all?"

"Yes. This place is warm." The replies were short, but concrete, a toddler's diction combined with the heaviness of a man's voice. Jessie flipped to another part of the script.

"You can understand me clearly?"

"Yes."

"Can you understand me now? _Tu puedes comprenderme_?"

"Yes. _Can you understand me?_ " came the imitation.

Jessie nodded. Like a systems check, everything was looking good.

"What can you see?" she continued.

ST-696 straightened up, excited. The smile perked up, becoming more genuine.

"I can see a lot of things." The voice was now excited, bobbing up and down like a dog. "Lot's of purple lines, everywhere. They go there, and there." ST-696 raised its arm, long and limp, and gestured in certain places. Then, its arm abruptly stopped at her.

"A lot of them are coming from you."

Jessie breathed in. Of course, the psionic acuity. It could probably see and interact with every strand of psionic energy in this very room. An astounding prospect. Less exciting, though, was the way ST-696 described it. Jessie had expected the subject to talk like a professional – like herself. Instead, it seemed like a child, just getting a handle on its life and the stimuli around it. Now that Jessie thought about it, it was logical. The thing had been reborn in the most literal sense.

"I think I can touch the lines," ST-696 said. "Can I?"

Jessie frowned. She still wasn't used to the subject's… primitive way of speaking. Especially when it came to advanced scientific topics like psionic manipulation.

"No thank you, ST-696," she said. "We have to move onto the rest of the questions."

"Oh." ST-696's smile faltered. It was still there, but it was only held up by the subject's skull structure again, not by its own will.

Jessie noticed the downtrodden (could you call it that?) look on the subject, and sighed. The script was only a tentative guideline anyway.

"Fine, ST-696. What do you want to talk about?"

* * *

Day 7

"White, this isn't good enough," said Rupert.

"What do you mean, not good enough?" Jessie replied. "I've spent a week with ST-696, and so far it's seemed well, despite its apparent disinterest in my questions."

"But it still talks like a baby! How are we supposed to present _that_ to the public?"

"He's still learning, Ackerman," Jessie said. "You're going to have to ask for more time – grasping human language is a pretty tall order."

Rupert slammed his hands against the obsidian surface of his desk. "I can't! The Elders won't take kindly to me begging for an extension. They want a fully functioning ST unit in two days!"

Jessie crossed her arms. "Then I guess I'll have to ask them myself."

* * *

Day 10

"Alright, ST-696, we're going to try something a little more advanced."

"Hm?"

"I'm going to ask you that question you wanted yesterday. We're going to see whether you improved in your language control." Jessie leaned back into her chair.

ST-696 paused for a moment. "I didn't understand the question, because you didn't call me the right name."

Now it was Jessie's turn to pause. "You have a name?"

ST-696 nodded. "A man walked past my room, and he was thinking of all these interesting letters. One of those is my name now. Zeta."

Then, as if to clarify: "That's mine."

Jessie crossed her arms. She'd grown quite attached to ST-696 in the past week, and it's little eccentricities were now objects of amusement rather than annoyance.

"Alright Zeta, do you remember the past?" she asked.

ST-696 didn't speak for a few moments, but it did put a finger to its chin, similar to the manner that Jessie did when she was thinking up new questions. Heck, she thought, ST-696's been copying a lot of my habits lately. It was cute.

"I remember being small," came the psionically transmitted voice, in its loud, cathedral choir tone. "And grey. Not much else, because I was sleeping."

Jessie nodded. The information was correct so far.

"Sleeping in what, ST-696?"

"I saw it from the outside. A metal... thing."

"Canister?"

"Yes. A canister. It was filled with this green water, or slime, and I was told to step in it. There were many other ones next to it. Others, just like me, had gone in them."

Good so far.

"Do you think anything changed after you woke up?"

ST-696 began to nod, its head moving up and down with intense rapidity. "Yes. I'm much taller now, I have a mouth, I'm a new color – pink, I think it's called – and I can… I can…"  
"Yes?"

"Do this!" With the intensity of a scientist who had made an immense breakthrough, ST-696 lifted one hand in the air. Jessie saw wisps of purple collect around it, before coalescing into a pulsating ball of energy. Purple lightning crackled, pushing out from the sphere that had engulfed ST-696's hand.

"I couldn't do this before," ST-696 said. Now, Jessie smiled. ST-696's mood was quite infectious. "At least, not something as good as this."

"Really?" came her reply.

"I can't really do it again, but maybe I can show you," ST-696 said. Jessie waited for another demonstration, but instead of that, an image appeared in her head. It was sudden, like an unbidden memory or flashback plunged from the deepest depths of her mind.

There, superimposed across her vision for mere seconds, was the image of a small, minute alien – the one Old World government reports had referred to as a Sectoid. It was staring at another alien of the same species. In one movement, one of the Sectoids had coiled its back, before relaxing and sending a beam of psionic energy from its forehead. The energy surrounded the bare head of its partner, circling it before entering.

"I think that's a… mind merge," ST-696 said, breaking in on the vision. "That's a word I found in my head, just like this."

Jessie gasped as the image faded from her head. Incredible. Not only was ST-696 capable of almost human-like interaction, but the image suggested a creative and active mind beyond the scale that had been predicted by ADVENT researchers. Perhaps, even close to independent thought.

"Are you alright?" ST-696 said, its thoughts tinged with worry. The worry began to swell into more extreme anxiety, prompting Jessie to bolt upward in her seat.

"No no!" she exclaimed. "I'm perfectly fine, don't worry!" She reached up and placed a hand on her head.

After calming down, she looked up at ST-696.

"We'll have another session later, ST-696."

"Okay, Dr. White."

* * *

Day 14

"Jess, what are you talking about?"

"Don't tell Rupert, or anyone else, what I'm going to tell you, Tariq, alright?"

Tariq pressed his hands against his legs, and turned in his swivel chair to face Jessie.

"Fine. I won't tell," he said.

"Okay. You remember ST-696?"

"The little pet project you got an extension for? What about it?"

"Look at this."

Tariq scanned the paper that Jessie had pulled up. On it was, drawn in pencil, a small creature with large, beady eyes. It had no mouth, and its mouth was half the size of its body. Stick limbs protruded from its sacklike belly.

"You've taken up drawing?" Tariq replied sarcastically.

Jessie shook her head, not even noticing the sarcasm. "Day before yesterday, I left my clipboard in the room by accident. ST-696 apparently took it and drew in it."

Now Tariq was listening. "ST-696 _drew_ this?"

"Yes. Without reference except its own thoughts."

Tariq's expression looked like he'd been punched. "That's impossible," he said, shaking his head. "ST-696 was made from an old template. A goddamn, honest to God clone. It can't just start drawing pictures unless that skill is coded in it!"

Jessie folded up the picture and placed it in her coat pocket.

"It doesn't stop there. It has its own name."

"It's own name."

"Right. It's calling itself Zeta now." Jessie was almost ecstatic at this point. "Don't you see what this means?"

Tariq shook his head. He was still grappling with the fact that the first successful subject from the ST series had not only developed human physical traits, but also a humanlike state of mind.

"Human DNA doesn't just increase psionic prowess – it creates sentience!"

Tariq blew out a huge breath, and leaned against the table next to him.

But Jessie wasn't done. "You can't tell anyone, Tariq."

Tariq looked back at her. "We have to tell Rupert."

Jessie frowned. "They'll get rid of Zeta."

"We were supposed to make psionic shock troopers, Jessie!" Tariq said. "Not raise a human equivalent of an alien baby. Have you forgotten your reason for jumping on this project?" Tariq pointed a finger at Jessie, where it hung between him and her.

"Peace and prosperity," she said, but without any conviction. Then: "But Tariq, Zeta trusts me. We brought it into this world – don't you feel any responsibility for a living, thinking being?"

"You certainly didn't share the same sentiments for ST's 1 through 698."

"It's different Tariq," Jessie said, stubbornly holding her ground. "This is our modern-day Frankenstein. This is life."

"And like Frankenstein, what do you think it'll do if it gets out of control?" Tariq retorted. "Do you want that psionic powerhouse to get angry? We don't even know if it responds to the cues we preplanned. We have to destroy it!"

Tariq stood up, pushing his chair back. "I'm going to Rupert. I can't let you compromise this project, Jessie. We've worked too hard to screw up now."

He walked down the hall, leaving Jessie standing, mouth agape. Then, apparently recovering, she turned and walked in the opposite direction.

* * *

Rupert glanced over the report. The color had gone from his face.

"Is this true?" he said. Tariq nodded.

"Insane. We didn't think this would happen?"

"Truth be told," replied Tariq, "We shouldn't have expected less by trying to augment the subject's brain matter with human DNA. It's clear ST-696 can do much more than learn English and do a few psychic magic tricks."

Rupert closed the report folder, slapping the manila cover onto the table.

"I need to speak to my superiors. You are dismissed." Rupert closed his eyes, listening to the patter of feet and the metallic thunk of the door closing. When Tariq was gone, he opened his eyes and turned toward the console at the other end of the room.

"This is Dr. Rupert Ackerman, requesting a direct call to the Elders."

A screen on the top of the console came to life, its surface rippling. Soon, a figure, robed in ivory white cloth and wearing a smooth, decorated helmet, appeared.

"Yes?" purred the voice that accompanied the helmeted face.

"Angelis," Rupert said, pressing a hand to his chest in the traditional ADVENT salute. "We've found a disturbing new development regarding ST-696."

"What is that?" said the Ethereal. The voice had shifted, going from playful to intimidating in seconds.

"The transfer of human DNA was completely successful, and your newest parameters have succeeded, but –"

"But what, Dr. Ackerman? I cannot see how _you_ have failed when the project has succeeded in all respects."

Rupert swallowed, and continued. "That is correct. However, the failure lies in the fact that ST-696 has succeeded too well. Not only can it communicate, as per your instruction, but it is now capable of independent thought."

The Angelis Ethereal was silent for a second, its helmet stock still in the center of the screen. Then, it looked down, as if regarding Rupert for the first time.

"Terminate it, Dr. Ackerman," the Ethereal said. "Immediately. We must wash our hands of this failure and begin anew."

"Indeed, Angelis," Rupert began, but he was cut off.

"This… development is concerning, Dr. Ackerman," it said. The back of Rupert's neck prickled, and he felt like a mouse being watched by a cat.

"It is the last we will have from you. All of your staff will be transferred to… new accommodations. It is clear that the Sectoid Trooper line must be raised with more pragmatism, and less… human elements."

The screen winked out, leaving Rupert standing in the dark conference room.

* * *

 _Who is this?_

A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the glare of the electric lights.

"We have to go," it said. "Now."

* * *

Three minutes later, Rupert, Tariq, and two prototype ADVENT Troopers walked towards ST-696's holding cell. Rupert hated to look at them. The armor wasn't sufficient to cover their gene-modifications, so most ADVENT Troopers looked like smooth-skinned Sectoids packed into wiry exoskeletal armor. It was only their competence that made them tolerable in Rupert's eyes.

Soon, the group stopped in front of the black door, separating ST-696 from the outside world.

"Remember," Rupert told the two Troopers. "Full bursts. Don't give that thing a moment to recover."

The Troopers nodded, aiming their weapons at the door. Energy cores flared up as they prepped their magnetic rifles. Tariq placed his hand in the door's ID lock, confirmed his ID, and pulled.

There was nothing there. Nothing besides a few scraps of paper, covered in scribbles, and several pencils scattered across the floor.

"What?!" Rupert exclaimed. "Where's ST-696?"

"Bepos Balor!" screamed one of the Troopers in response. The soldier was staring out a large window that showed the raining tundra surrounding the facility. Rupert followed the Trooper's gaze, and caught a glimpse of pink flashing through the grey mist.

"That bitch!" said Tariq, who was also staring out the window. Unlike Rupert, he had seen a white labcoat fluttering next to ST-696. "Dr. White's gone AWOL!"

Rupert turned to the two ADVENT Troopers. "Get the facility on high alert. Send for a Captain. I want a transport, and I want them bloody found!"

* * *

Zeta covered its head as the rain slammed into it, pelting it mercilessly. The cold racked its body, a feeling that was unfamiliar to the Sectoid since it had left the warm confines of the research lab. The fear was the worst, though. The seemingly permanent chill that ran across its body, threatening to wrap itself around its limbs and collapse it. That was a horrifying feeling to experience for the first time.

 _Must run. Keep going._

But there was one thing that made it keep going, despite the crippling conditions. The familiar arms of its creator, the being who had approached it during those first blind, unconscious moments of its rebirth. Zeta had longed for those arms to wrap around it once more, to shield it from the unfamiliar areas of its surroundings. To protect it from the strange people in black who prodded and poked it, pushing it into rooms and hallways.

 _Farther and farther. Move faster._

Zeta had remembered the bright, warm feelings that had swelled in its chest when it saw Jessie White again. Her frame blocking out the blinding electric lights outside of the Sectoid's meager, cramped cell had been a thing of miracles. Then, she had taken hold of Zeta, and pushed it into to the cold. Zeta had only agreed since they seemed to be going farther and farther away from the unusual and almost frightening place where Zeta had been born.

They had almost reached the thick forest cover when the first warning shots were fired above their heads. Zeta ducked on instinct, seeing from the corner of its eye the red tracer bullets slamming into the pine trees above their heads. Pieces of wood clattered onto their heads, but Zeta's resolve to run was only strengthened.

"Zeibal Zour!" yelled one of their pursuers. The being raised a long, boxy tube to its shoulder, and fired another wave of bullets.

These scattered into the ground surrounding Zeta and Jessie, sending up miniature geysers of dirt. Zeta felt the heat of one of the magnetic slugs as it barreled passed its thigh. Zeta kept running.

Then, Jessie let go of it. Zeta stopped, and turned, wondering why Jessie had stopped running. _Are you hurt?_ it thought.

No, she was standing at the edge of the forest, staring back at the figures running at them. Then, she snapped her head back at Zeta.

"Go!" she cried. "Get out of here!"

Zeta didn't move. It couldn't understand the logic behind her desperate plea. In response, Jessie pushed up against Zeta, her frame a head shorter than the Sectoid, and forced him into the woods.

 _What's wrong_? it tried again.

"I'm fine!" she cried again. Zeta saw water streaming down her face, like the water coming from the sky. "Go, I'll be okay!" she kept saying. "Find a safe place, I'll meet you there!"

Zeta nodded reluctantly, and began to trudge. Jessie eased up on the pressure, and stood still as she watched Zeta enter the rain-soaked forest. The Sectoid could only jog, its head cocked back to see if its creator was following it. Soon, the brush and plants had hidden Jessie out of sight.

 _Jessie?_ it thought.

"Go!" came the last shout.

And go Zeta did, and after a few minutes, waited in the undergrowth. It had taken Jessie's words to heart, and sat, waiting for her to return. It heard several more magnetic rounds go off in the forest, but having not witnessed the deadly potential of these devices, assumed that Jessie was still fine.

Then, after several more minutes, Zeta heard footsteps. Branches crunched, an abrupt interruption to the endless patter of the rain, as something approached Zeta's hiding place.

Filled with the warm feeling again, Zeta came up, sending up a happy thought to its creator.

 _Jessie_ –

"Crack!"

* * *

Rupert stood over the bullet riddled remains of ST-696. A promising specimen, a look at a brighter future. Another mistake.

He turned to the two ADVENT Troopers, who had started to carry the body back to the facility, and sighed. He'd have to start all over again, working out the kinks and ironing out whatever glitches had caused this specimen to go horribly wrong.

Perhaps ST-697 would be the one.


End file.
